


Feels Like Home

by ariannenymerosmartell (somethingmoo)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Starkcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-05 00:00:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3097433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingmoo/pseuds/ariannenymerosmartell





	Feels Like Home

She’s been studying in Berlin all winter, practically isolated from everyone. Between language classes, and literature classes, and a part-time job at a tiny _kaffee_ shop.

She only barely manages to keep up with Sunday Skype sessions with her family— and those are their own kind of tiring. While she loves to see her father’s smile, with his salt-and-pepper beard, and warm grey eyes, and while she loves to hear his gravelly voice tell her that _winter is coming_ whenever she complains about _anything_ , it gets tiring to stay on Skype for over an hour assuring anyone who’s home that she is fine and can take care of herself.

Her mother worries constantly— worries that she’s not eating enough, not sleeping enough, that she’s drinking too much. She worries that she’s alone, worries about how she’s _behaving_ over there. She’d threatened to send Sansa to stay with her the first time she’d missed a Sunday Skype session because she’d been sleeping off a hangover.

She knows her mum means well, but it’s tiring defending her course of study. _Is history really what you want to do?_ She can hear Robb’s voice echoing in her head. _Really? A thesis on the history of secret cults? Arya, what are you going to do with that?_

All she ever hears is “Arya, what are you going to do with that?” 

"Drink a lot of _bier_ ,” she says aloud, to her wall, to the quiet of her room, and she hears a distinct _snort_ from just outside her door.

She knows that snort.

She yanks the door open and finds her brother standing there, shit-eating grin on his face.

She ought to hit him, she knows, for laughing at her, for showing up without any notice, for grinning at her like that, but she’s too happy to see him and she leaps into his arms. And he, as he always does, catches her easily and lifts her off her feet.

"Little sister," he murmurs into her hair, and Arya hates that it almost makes her cry. She hates that two simple words undo her, but _gods_ she’s missed him. And _gods_ it gets lonely here, locked away, studying about secret cults, and assassins.

"What are you doing here?" She asks, when she thinks she’s got control of her voice. She’s still clinging to him though, loving the fact that somehow, someway, he smells like _home_.

"I had off for a few days," Jon says. "I figured it’d be a shame to have one Stark in Russia and one in Germany and have them never see each other." He pauses and musses her hair. "It’s rather Romeo and Juliet if you want to fanfic about it."

Arya snorts, and finally lets him go, but grabs his hand and drags him all the way into her little studio. “What do you know about fanfic?” She asks with a laugh, as Jon tosses his duffel into a corner.

"Sam writes a lot of it," Jon answers, without missing a beat. "I have a sneaking suspicion that most of it is about Grenn and Pyp fucking, but the sneaky bastard has the greatest encryption system on his laptop and I can’t break in."

"Give me Sam’s contact information," Arya says with a grin that’s almost identical to his own. "I’m gonna need to read that story on these long, cold, _lonely_ nights.”

Jon narrows his eyes at her and glares. “You don’t. You’d be grossed out. These are not things that you even know about. You’re eleven.”

"Sixteen, actually," Arya says cheerfully, pinching his cheek. "I appreciate you trying to recapture your youth and all, but unless you’ve invented a time machine…"

"That’s enough out of your smart mouth," Jon says, reaching over and mussing her hair again. It feels good to have him here, to have him warm and solid at her side. She feels like she can breathe again, like everything is easier.

It’s only now that he’s here that she realizes just how much she’d missed him, had felt nearly incomplete without him.

The thought brings unexpected tears to her eyes, and she gets up and strides to the fridge abruptly and pulls out two beers. If she’s gonna cry, and she’s starting to think it might be inevitable at this point, she’s definitely going to blame it on the alcohol.

They sit and drink and talk, Jon filling her in on his adventures in Russia, regaling her with stories about Sam, and Grenn, and Pyp. He tells her about Ygritte, and the pain etched in every line of his face when he speaks about her death, feels like a dozen knives to her heart.

She tells him about Gendry and how she’s not sure if he’ll still want to date her when she comes home. She misses him, and she still thinks about him, but sometimes she worries they’ll never find their way back to each other. 

She tells him about Professor H’ghar and how much she wants him, but he runs so hot and cold. One day cornering her in the stacks of the library and breathing down the back of her neck, the next day ignoring her, as though he were two completely different people.

And Jon listens, and never judges, even if his eyebrows do shoot up into his hair when she first mentions Jaqen. But he listens to her.

She talks and he talks, and suddenly, the sun is peeking though the clouds and their throats are dry and there’s no beer left anywhere in the apartment.

"It’s taken 7 hours for us to scratch the surface of catching up," Arya says, standing up to stretch. The alcohol hits her then and she promptly sits back down. "I’m a little more drunk than I thought I was."

Jon grins lazily at her, sprawled against the couch. “Light weight,” he teases, but gets up and promptly fetches her a glass of water, before resuming his place next to her. 

She scoots closer to him and rests her head on his chest. “Seven hours and I still have more to tell you.”

"And I have more to tell you," Jon says, fingers idly combing through her hair. "We shouldn’t ever be apart. My vocal chords can’t handle it."

She laughs at that, more of a small huff into his chest as she sips the water.

"I really missed you, Jon," she says, and tilts her face up so she can look him in the eye.

"I missed you more than anyone," he says solemnly, and she feels her heart stutter. It’s worse than when Gendry looks at her and tells her she’s beautiful. It’s worse than when Jaqen calls her _lovely_. It’s a sharp, acute ache, and it’s _worse_ , so  _much worse_ than anything she’s ever felt before.

And then they’re kissing. Every first kiss she’s ever had has started off as hesitant and tentative, but not this one. This one is sure, from the minute his lips touch hers, or is it hers touching his? The kiss is sure and steady, and her skin is tingling, and there are fireworks dancing behind her eyes, and it’s better than presents, or riding, or the first snowfall. It’s home.

He breaks the kiss first, and pulls away. “Arya,” he breathes, his voice tinged with guilt, with longing, but not, she notes with hope, not with regret.

She cups his face between her hands, and kisses his cheeks, his nose. This close, she can just barely see herself reflected in his eyes, a darker grey than hers, and all the lovelier for it. She sees herself in his face, and for the first time, sees why he might call her pretty.

"It’s us," she says simply, because it’s _them_. It’s always been _them_.

She kisses him again, and it’s all the confirmation Jon needs, because the kisses go from sure, to wildly passionate, his hands tugging at her hair, gripping her chin, her hips. She clings to him, biting at his lower lip, kissing along his neck, delighting at the tiny marks that appear the moment she nips him, delighting in his moans that she can _feel_ rumbling through his chest. The sound sends heat directly to her clit, and she’s surprised to find that she’s already wet, just from kissing.

She desperately wants him to touch her, to really touch her, to put his hot hands on her breasts and pinch her nipples. She wants his long fingers inside of her, rubbing her clit, pushing inside of her.

But he just kisses her, stroking her hair, her face, her sides, her arms, until finally, finally, he says, “Take off your clothes.”

She complies, removing each article slowly and deliberately, reveling in the way Jon’s eyes stay on her, drinking in every piece of newly exposed skin.

When she’s completely naked, he pushes her back onto the couch, and straddles her, careful not to put his weight on her. She opens her mouth to tell him where the condoms are, but before she can get the words out, he’s kissing her again, clever fingers barely brushing over her nipples. The ache between her legs is almost unbearable and she whines against his mouth.

He chuckles at that, but doesn’t move any faster, fingers still barely brushing her breasts, placing kisses on her collar bones, and neck.

And slowly, _slowly_ , he makes his way down her body. When his lips close around one nipple, sucking just so, Arya’s back arcs off the couch, craving more. His fingers finally close in on the other, pinching and twisting, and the Old Gods themselves could not stop her moaning. He alternates his mouth and fingers on her nipples, and it’s so good she could cry.

But then he starts kissing down her stomach, kissing her hipbones, kissing the dark curls above her sex, and glances up and locks eyes with her. At that moment, Arya knows, _she knows,_ she’s going to come the minute his tongue touches her clit.

She does.

His tongue flicks against her clit, and her entire body reacts, stars dancing behind her eyes, gooseflesh dotting all of her, and she comes with a long, loud, moan.

He doesn’t stop. The minute she starts to catch her breath, he licks into her again, dipping his tongue into her core, then coming back up and circling around her clit. When he slides the first finger inside of her, and flicks at her clit with his tongue, she cries out, overloaded with pleasure. He puts the second finger in then, moving them in and out quickly, and she’s so wet she can hear the squelching sound his fingers make as they move.

It should embarrass her, but it arouses her further, and when he sucks gently on her clit, she comes again, even more powerfully than before.

He kisses his way back up to her lips, and she opens her mouth greedily, loving the taste of herself on his tongue. He’s stroking her sides gently, but when she reaches for his belt, when she reaches to cup his cock, he stills her hand.

"Tomorrow morning. After you sleep," he says, firmly. His eyes are still warm, but his face is serious.

"I want—" she starts, but he cuts her off.

"I know," he says, with a little smile. "But I want you to be sure. Really sure. Sleep on it."

She stares at him wordlessly, and has half a mind to just grab his cock anyway and see if he tells her to sleep on it then, but he’s got that Stark honor, even if he’s only a Snow, and she knows he won’t change his mind.

"You’re ridiculous," she tells him, and pouts for good measure, but he’s already grabbing a blanket for them.

"Sticks and stones, Stark," he tells her, spreading the blanket over her.

"Sleep with me?" She asks, a little self-consciously, and he just smiles at her.

"Of course," he responds, and strips down to just his boxers, looking a little abashed at his still-hard cock.

"You’re ridiculous," she says again, when he settles himself next to her, careful not to press too close against her backside.

"But I’m still your big brother," he murmurs into her shoulder, and _oh_ that thought shouldn’t make her smile as much as it does.


End file.
